


The Sweat of Champions

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Clash of the Titans (2010), Ella Enchanted (2004), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: #EnchantedClash, #RareMeat, Don't copy to another site, Gladiators, Hannibal Extended Universe, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: Emperor Charmont of Kyrria is considered a god among men, beloved by all of his people. His secret - beyond his beauty and wit - is the gladiators who service him, as their sweat is an aphrodisiac that keeps him adored by all who see him.Draco of the King's Guard is a gladiator of the arena. His secret is that he wins not out of blood-lust, but out of a desire to catch the emperor's eye and win his favor so that he may be freed.They both end up getting something a little more than they desired.
Relationships: Prince Charmont (Ella Enchanted)/Draco (Clash of the Titans)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61
Collections: MonthlyRareMeat





	The Sweat of Champions

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to [#RareMeat Draco Week](https://twitter.com/RareMeat_/status/1226180520452804608)!
> 
> Warnings: Although they do end up being happy, at first Charmont does coerce Draco into sex, so we do enter a bit of dubcon territory here. Also warnings for blatant inaccuracies about gladiators, empires, and both Ella Enchanted & Clash of the Titans. 
> 
> Inspiration: [This tweet](https://twitter.com/SilverQueenLady/status/1230575612701659136). Need I say anything more.

On one hand, Medusa turning him to stone in the middle of a battle was probably a good thing, because it means that when Draco is revived, he still has the battle mindset and therefore doesn’t stumble when he is handed a sword and shoved into an arena.

On the other hand, Medusa turning him to stone in the middle of a battle is also a bad thing, since it means Draco is incredibly disoriented and dodges a dying blow by, quite literally, the skin of his teeth. 

After that, his instinct kicks in, but the quiet calm of parry-strike-slice – although effective for staying alive – also means that Draco isn’t free to really comprehend other details around him. He focuses on his opponent’s shield, on his mace, and upon his weak spots, blocking out the chattering of the crowd, and therefore when he fells his opponent and stands triumphant, panting and bloodstained, he staggers backwards at the roar that goes up. Because he’s in an area, now. Somehow. 

When he tries to ask questions, he is ignored. When he struggles, he is beaten. And when he announces himself as commander of Princess Andromeda’s guard and demands to know where he is, he is laughed at.

“Queen Andromeda died years ago,” the guards jeer in as they click the manacles shut and leave him to gasp through the pain. “You’re in Kyrria now.”

Which is how Draco learns that he most definitely is alive, that Medusa is dead, and that so is everyone he loves.

All in all, a terrible day.

* * *

Fortunately, Draco starts off at the bottom of the pecking order, so to speak. It means he is mostly ignored by the top gladiators, as they do not view him as a threat, and other gladiators are willing to converse and spar, because he is old and they are young. It is from them that he learns that Princess Andromeda – his princess, his beautiful and smart and courageous charge – did survive, and went on to rule with Theseus at her side for many years before she died. But their kingdom has long since crumbled, and what little land that has survived the wrath of the sea and the gods has been swallowed up by the expanding Kyrrian Empire. He is told many things about the Kyrrian Emperor – that he is young and inexperienced, that he is savage and a beast, that he is adored and a god among men – but most of all, he is told that the Kyrrian Emperor loves the gladiator games and sometimes, once a in great while, he frees a gladiator.

“You cannot buy your way out with winnings?” Draco asks.

The other gladiators laugh. “No, winnings go to whatever lord has bought you,” they tell him. “Or, in your case, it’s the house’s win, since no one has claimed you.”

“And only the Emperor has the power to free a gladiator?”

“Yes, but it happens once in a blue moon,” he is told. “For a very, very good gladiator.”

And, well. Draco didn’t become commander of Princess Andromeda’s guard by sitting around and growing a beard. The gladiators fight with many weapons, of course, and some of them are not styles he ever used, but he learns fast, and he’s already excellent with a sword and shield and other standard methods of combat.

Draco resolves to become a very, very good gladiator, and so he goes out into the arena and he wins, and wins, and wins again.

The other gladiators, of course, begin to shun him. But the crowds adore him – they cheer when he wins despite terrible odds, they clap when he enters the arena, they chant when he circles his opponents and gauges how best to win. And the owners certainly like his victorious streak, because he is moved from a small dark cell with a straw bed and a bucket to an actual room with an actual bed and a tub for bathing. 

The door still locks from the outside, though, and when he is not in training or in matches or in meals, he is still chained by the ankle – as all the gladiators are – to ensure he cannot try and escape.

A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.

But Draco is patient. He guarded Andromeda from the day she was born, after all, and children are trying charges. So he trains, and he wins, and he bides his time.

And then, finally, only a few months after being awakened and shoved into an area, a messenger comes, and Draco is bound and transported to the palace.

* * *

The guards – five of them, with one in front, one behind, two at his sides, and one holding the chain tied to his bound wrists – march him into the palace, where they line him up with other gladiators. They’ve all been stripped of their weapons, Draco notices, and all are bound and carefully guarded. It’s probably a wise decision; Draco knows killers, and he’s standing in a line full of them.

The reason for the heightened security becomes clear moments later, when a man enters the room. He is young, very young, with a face that still bears some baby fat, but his face is sharp and his eyes sharper. He wears nothing but chiton and sandals, but upon his head is a golden crown of laurels, and Draco realizes who has summoned him.

The guards, as one, bow as a trumpeter announces the man’s entrance.

“Presenting His Majesty, Charmont, Emperor of Kyrria!”

The emperor yawns and stretches, and then he pads right up to the closest gladiator, examining him from head to toe as if he is nothing more than a horse at auction. He even pokes the man’s shoulder, showing no fear at all. But whatever he is looking for, he does not find, as he swiftly waves his hand and moves on, causing the guards to drag the man away. He does the same examination as he goes down the line, sometimes prodding at stomachs or legs, sometimes circling and staring, but each time he moves on with a disinterested sniff.

Then he comes to Draco. 

He does the same thing here – he circles Draco, looking at him up and down, and then he slides a hand down his chest. When he comes to a stop in front of Draco, Draco meets the emperor’s eyes, for he sees no reason to lower them. Draco once rushed the god of death himself; why should he mere this slip of a man, just come to manhood and barely reaching Draco’s chin?

The emperor’s eyes gleam as he makes contact. His eyes are very bright, but there are secrets there; it is not the gentle light of a shallow pond, but the beautiful waves that hide the depths of the treacherous ocean. He smiles wildly and bears teeth, and Draco represses a shiver; this man wants to eat them all, and fears none of their weapons. In an instant, he understands why most of the gladiators refused to make eye contact – and why some of them whisper that he is a god among men.

Then, the emperor opens his mouth. “You’re not afraid of me,” he says, voice sweet and soft like a lullaby. He tilts his head. “Such a rare thing to find nowadays.”

“I wasn’t raised to fear you.”

“Hmm.” The emperor taps a finger on his chin. “No, I suppose not; I am, after all, quite young. But I don’t think it’s just that. You don’t fear me because you don’t think I can hurt you.”

The words are true, but Draco keeps his mouth shut. He knows better than to invite further punishment from an emperor, unlike his foolish king and queen, who nearly got Andromeda slaughtered. 

The emperor’s smile turns sly. He reaches out and fits a hand to Draco’s neck, soft and sweet like a cub nosing against its mother. Or, perhaps, a serpent, learning the width of the prey it must crush. He strokes up and down Draco’s throat, watching as Draco swallows, and he leans close and takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” the emperor breathes. “You are the one. Take him to my quarters.”

* * *

The guards secure him with chains, thick and strong and unbreakable, binding his feet to the ground, legs spread apart, and his arms to the walls, stretched out just short of becoming uncomfortable. They fit a collar to his neck too, and secure that to a chain in the ceiling, so that Draco cannot move from his position without the possibility of strangling himself. 

Then they leave him, and Draco is left to contemplate what, exactly, he has gotten himself into.

The chamber he is in now is vast, bigger even than the room the emperor received them in, and its main purpose seems to be pleasure and decadence. There is an enormous bed, for one thing, draped in fine silks and piled with pillows of all kinds. He can hear the echoing ripples of water, as if there is a vast bath not far. And there is a table piled high with food, fine meats and fresh fruits and all kinds of bread. Such a place wouldn’t have been out of place in Queen Cassiopeia’s rooms, once upon a time. 

The door behind him opens and shuts, very quietly. The padding of feet behind him is even quieter, but Draco learned from the best. 

He tilts his head. “For what purpose have you brought me here?”

The emperor makes an amused noise. “You’re a sharp one. Good. It would be wonderful to have such a fine specimen be capable of articulate speech. It’s such a rare thing.”

Then he comes around, and Draco has to hastily avert his eyes, because the emperor is dressed, well. “Dressed” is actually a rather generous term, to be honest. He is wearing a sheer glimmering chiton, haphazardly draped over one shoulder and gathered at his waist, leaving no part of him hidden from imagination. He has no tokens of office – no crown, no golden belt, no guards – but he still has that same imperious, hungry smirk, as if he glories in knowing he need only raise his voice to have all the guards rush in on his behalf.

“So shy? Surely you’ve seen more naked men than perhaps even I have,” the emperor laughs, high and pleased as a boy being gifted his first sword. 

“In places where it is required or allowed,” Draco manages through a tight throat. “Not where it is flaunted.”

“Should I not flaunt who I am?” the emperor asks. He pads away, and Draco hears the clink of glass and the tinkling of wine. “I was gifted with very fine features, or so I am told; it’s best to use one’s assets to their fullest advantage. People eye me wherever I go, gladiator. I might as well make it worth their while.”

“So you dress like that when you go out to greet your people?”

“When it pleases me.”

“And I am here . . . because it pleases you?”

“Most certainly,” the emperor purrs. “The idea of you in my service pleases me greatly.”

“And what am I expected to do? In your service?”

“Why,” the emperor says, “to do whatever I want. I work very hard to keep the empire running, gladiator. I ensure that the army defends our borders, I fund great public works to keep people employed, and I make sure my people have food aplenty. I listen to my people’s complaints, I provide them with entertainment, and I sentence criminals who have hurt my people. I think after all of that, I am owed whatever I want, and right now, what I want is you.”

Draco peels his eyes away from the ceiling. The emperor has, at least, seated himself, but he is seated like a lion – limbs akimbo and full of lazy confidence, with a golden cup in his hand and curls tumbling about his face. 

“I won’t be much use to you chained up,” Draco notes. 

“That’s just a precaution. Some fools think they can try to flee from me. No one leaves me without my knowledge and approval, and I’m rather tired of chasing them down. Besides,” he adds, sipping at his wine, “the punishment often leaves them too battered to service me effectively.”

Draco came from an excellent family. He could have become an orator or senator, if he’d wanted; his family had the money and the connections. But he chose to fight because fighting is clean cut and clear – he raises his sword in his kingdom’s defense, and he destroys his enemies. He does not need to dance around and use pretty words to lure people in. And so Draco loses his patience, and says, again, “What do you want from me?”

The emperor pauses. His eyes narrow, as if he isn’t used to such rudeness, but he settles down and puts his wine back on the table. He clasps his hands in his lap. 

“I would like to be serviced, and a gladiator is usually well equipped to do so,” he says plainly, seeming not at all ashamed. “And your efforts would carry . . . benefits. The sweat of a champion is very potent, you know. If humans had ambrosia, your sweat would be it, and it keeps the people adoring me, as they should.”

“No,” Draco says flatly. He doesn’t even need to think about.

“Why? Are you a virgin?” the emperor asks. “I can be your first; I promise I can give excellent instruction.”

“It’s not proper,” Draco says. This emperor is not his, but there is still a line between him, as a commoner, and this man, as an emperor from noble blood. 

“I am the emperor. I deem what is proper.”

Draco meets his eyes calmly. “You are not my emperor.”

If this man had been Queen Cassiopeia, he would have flown into a rage at being addressed so directly and familiarly. Instead, this emperor smiles, tightly, like he is restraining himself from laughing, and then he leans back and reaches for his wine again. He lets the silence hang there, sure in his knowledge that he could order Draco’s death and Draco could not stop him, but that does not bother Draco. He’s already died once, after all.

Finally, the emperor speaks. “I am not your emperor,” he agrees. Then he smiles. “Yet.” 

He gets to his feet and prowls closer, and when Draco tries to yield, the chains hold him fast. He is forced to stand helplessly as the emperor gets closer and closer, until at least he is so close their chests brush when Draco breathes out. The emperor leans up and places his mouth very close to Draco’s ear, so that his words are more felt than heard.

“But I can become your emperor,” he whispers.

Then he slips away, still smiling as if he’s already won, and heads for the door.

“Do keep up your winning streak; I’d hate to see you lose. Only the best are presented to me, you know.”

* * *

The guards bring Draco back to the arena, but they lock him in his room. And when meal time comes, no one frees Draco. They do not free him for the morning meal either, and instead give him his weapons and his shield and push him into the arena to fight. He wins, but is given only a jug of water.

_I make sure my people have food aplenty,_ Draco remembers, and drinks his water.

* * *

Hunger becomes his constant companion. He is thrown into match after match, but afterwards he is escorted immediately to his room. They will give him water, as much as he wants, but not a scrap of food. And Draco has known hunger before, and he knows when the game is being played, but he also knows that he cannot last forever. Soon, he will be too weak to win, and then he will have lost the emperor’s favor. 

But he holds out for as long as he can, powering through with everything he has, until at least he can go no longer. They put a sword in his hands, and he drops it, too weak to hold it.

The emperor comes then, dressed in regal purple with a crown upon his head, to smile at Draco where he wheezes on the ground, belly cramping and limbs too heavy to move. He kneels in the dirt beside Draco and puts a hand upon his neck.

“A week. I am impressed indeed.” 

Draco closes his eyes, too tired to take the compliment, and the emperor digs his fingers in until he opens them again.

“Ah, ah. Answer me, gladiator. Do you yield?”

Draco wets his lips. With what little strength he can muster, he croaks, “Yes.” 

“And why is that?”

“Because you . . are my emperor,” Draco says dully.

The emperor’s fingers turn soft again, soft and sweet and gentle as they stroke his neck. “Yes,” he murmurs. “I am.”

* * *

They install him in a very comfortable bed in the palace, with servants waiting hand and foot to ensure that he is fed and bathed, but also watched. They don’t chain him, but Draco knows it would be foolish to run. After all, for now he has luckily been impressive and amusing to the emperor, but to flee would be to invoke his anger, and Draco has no desire to starve to death. 

So he eats, and bathes, and rests. And on the seventh day, the emperor comes to him. 

Draco awakens to a weight upon his legs, and when he opens his eyes, he finds the emperor, naked as a babe, straddling him with a smile on his face. His skin is warm and soft, for Draco hasn’t been afforded anything to wear, and so he swallows and tries not to react.

“You are a strange one,” the emperor muses. “I mean, I knew anyone would be dug out of Medusa’s old lair might be strange, but – such a will of iron! Most didn’t last a day.” He laughs. “Your sweat will be potent indeed. I might be adored for years with you at my side.”

“I am not sure – ”

“Oh, relax. I can do the hard work, this time. Just lay back and think of freedom.”

“What?” Draco asks, made stupid by the abundance of fine food and wine in his belly after a week of deprivation.

“Freedom,” the emperor repeats. “Surely you can’t think me an idiot. You wanted to catch my eye in hopes of securing my pardon so that you might be free. You aren’t the first with that hope, mind you.”

Draco resists the groan that rises in his belly as the emperor begins to move, soft little undulations that rub their groins together. “And what happened?”

“To the others?” The emperor shrugs. “I had my fun. When I tired of them, I let them go. Some of them are even still alive. But enough talk, my dear Draco,” he purrs. “Let’s see what you are made of.”

* * *

The emperor is rather inconsistent. Sometimes, he calls for Draco thrice a week. Other times, weeks pass between visits. Yet he seems no less interested in Draco than the first time, always eager to pin him down or be pinned down, and afterwards, he rubs himself all over Draco as if to absorb every last droplet he can before he strides out with that same imperious confidence that has everyone bowing at his feet.

Draco can’t say a part of him doesn’t admire the emperor – admire his sharp wit and sharper tongue, admire the fine curves of his body, admire the look in his eyes when he sets his teeth to Draco’s skin and howls his release. 

Sometimes, he even forgets that they are not lovers.

But the emperor is, as usual, keen eyed. He calls for Draco, and after they mate like animals in the bed, the emperor lays on top of Draco’s chest and pets at his heaving chest.

“Do you still wish to be free, Draco?” he asks, sweet like an apple.

“Yes,” Draco says, because he knows better than to lie.

“Hmm. But you will obey me, no matter what I decide, and serve me as I wish?”

“You are my emperor.”

The emperor smiles. He levers himself upright and parts Draco’s legs with his own, nestling in between like he owns it, which he does. Draco lets him, for he has seen the emperor’s wrath roused once and never wishes to see it again, and furthermore, he knows the emperor delights in seeing him brought to pleasure as well. He enjoys knowing that his control over Draco is so complete that Draco cannot do anything but take everything he offers and weep helplessly as he is worked to completion.

“I think,” the emperor says, “that you should call me by my name. And I also think that your days in the arena are done. You will have a much better battlefield to conquer, Draco.”

“And what is that?” Draco asks.

“My advisors have been telling me I ought to have a guard accompany me at all times,” the emperor says idly. He strokes up and down Draco’s legs, tone as mild as if he is recounting the harvest counts. “I think a gladiator would be well equipped for that. And, of course, it would make it much easier if I didn’t have to summon you from the arena. I could simply order you to my rooms, or visit yours. What do you think of that, Draco?”

It’s not freedom. Draco isn’t so foolish as to be taken in by the idle tone and dreamy description. But he also can’t deny that part of him yearns for it. It was he, after all, who disarmed the assassin that crept into their room one night, and the emperor had handed him a blade and had him take the man apart bit by bit to demonstrate the fate of any who would challenge him as emperor. And he had not done it out of calculation or desire for reward; Draco had seen the blade and jumped to intervene without hesitation. 

“If that is what you want,” Draco replies.

“I do want it,” the emperor whispers, like a confession. “I want every part of you, Draco. You will be mine unto death, for your service will never waver. You will never be free of me, I’m afraid.”

“You aren’t sorry about it,” Draco says. 

“No.”

“And neither am I.”

He is treated to a smile then – wide and beautiful, like the sun breaking through the clouds to signal the end of a storm. It is pure, almost; no hidden secrets, no deeper meanings, no emotion besides unadulterated pleasure. And he feels an answering smile upon his face, for he can find no resentment in seeing his emperor so happy. He could live the rest of his life like this, buoyed by his emperor’s joy at his service.

“I am glad I decided to conquer your old kingdom,” the emperor says. “Fighting Medusa was worth getting you.”

And Draco hasn’t thought of Medusa in months – not Medusa, not his old kingdom, not even Andromeda and her sweet laughter. It brings a small pang in chest, but that is easily overwritten. He has, after all, a new emperor to serve, and the past is the past. Andromeda is long dead. Charmont is alive.

“I offer you my sword,” Draco says. “I am yours, Emperor Charmont of Kyrria.”

“And I accept your vow,” the emperor says. “You are mine, Draco. Until the end of time, you are mine.”

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And Draco services Charmont and Charmont bestows him with affection and they live happily ever after, the end. 
> 
> Find me @ Telegram as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


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